


Lover Boy

by literaldumpster



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, California, Depression, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not exclusively fluff, Stress, but mostly fluff?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 15:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaldumpster/pseuds/literaldumpster
Summary: Lance, a marine biology PhD candidate at UC San Diego, meets a handsome barista named Keith under less-than-ideal conditions.Expect sea lions, surfing excursions, friendship and soft feelings with some rough patches along the way. And also the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.





	Lover Boy

_ American Girl — Luke Sital-Singh _

 

“Good morning, Plaxum, Blumfump, Swirn.” Lance hangs loosely onto the chain link fencing surrounding Pool A, midmorning sunlight throwing shallow shadows across the cement.  “And my main man! What’s shakin’, Kaltenecker?!” Kaltenecker snags a particularly fat fish, throwing his head into the air to better hork that sucker down.

“Hey, Lance,” Pidge greets, unceremoniously hurling a handful of dead fish into the pool. The sea lions, unperturbed by the splashes, continue to feast, their quick, glossy bodies bobbing through the bright turquoise water.

Lance gives his friend an amused once over. He’ll never get used to the sight of them in enormous green galoshes and a severely oversized volunteer shirt. “Morning, Pidgeon.”

Pidge frowns as they empty the last dregs of fish parts into the water. “Don’t you have something better to do than bother me?”

“Nope.”

The rehabilitation pens are lively this afternoon at the Pacific Marine Mammal Center, and since the kiddies are back in school and fieldtrip season hasn’t started yet, Lance is bored without any docent-ing to do. So, he’s doing what he always does when he’s bored: follow Pidge around.

Pidge sighs heavily, mumbles something under their breath as they leave the pool’s enclosure. 

 

Lance falls into step with his small friend, pausing as Pidge drops off the empty bucket and hefts up another one—full this time. Fish water sloshes over the sides and splatters onto the concrete as they walk, and, learning from past mistakes and unpleasant comments about smelling like bad sashimi, Lance gives the bucket a wide berth. 

The gate to Pool B swings open with a long squeak like a question mark. “Can you close that?” Pidge gestures with their head towards the gate and begins to rain fish chunks down onto the water. 

 

Lance obliges, grabbing onto the wire mesh and falling lazily forward to close it. Unfortunately the concrete is wet and balding a little and, with a cry, his feet are suddenly no longer under him. 

Pidge doesn’t even turn to look. “That’s why we wear the boots, Lance.”

“It’s fine! I’m fine—“ Barely standing, Lance’s feet start to slip out from under him again, but he clings tightly to the fence and manages to right himself again. “See?”

“Why do you insist on wearing those shoes?”

“These?” Lance kicks up his leg, appraising a single canvas shoe (with very little grip) decked out with brightly colored tropical flowers.

“Are you wearing any other pair of shoes?” Pidge deadpans.

“You’re just jealous because I’m a Cool Dresser,” Lance sniffs, throwing a cool pose solely for his own benefit because Pidge isn’t even looking.

Pidge lobs a whole fish directly into Queen Luxia’s open mouth. “Try Impractical Dresser.”

“These are plenty practical! They were on sale, they help me walk places. And check out these babies!” Lance points at his jorts. “Denim is basically the practical-est fabric.”

“Remember a couple weeks ago when you ordered a mesh cardigan?”

Fair point. “At least I don’t wear cargo pants!” Lance deflects.

“I think now is a good time to remind you that I’m the one holding the giant bucket of dead fish here.” Pidge says it casually, but the threat behind it is real enough that Lance decides to play it safe and pick a new subject.

__ 

Lance spies Allura as he opens up the door from the animal pens, so he takes advantage of the fish sludge on the floor and twirls around in what he assures himself is a suave turn. “Good afternoon, beautiful,” he greets in a low voice, leaning his shoulder against the edge of the door as he holds it open for Pidge.

Lance recognizes the familiar twitch of play-annoyance cross Allura’s face. “Hello, Lance,” she sighs, crossing her arms haughtily, but he recognizes a thinly disguised smile. Lance has been mercilessly flirting with Allura for, like, a year. At first it was because she’s a dream in a lab coat and arch supportive shoes, but now it’s an honest friendship and this is just kind of just a thing they do.

“So, you got a bunch of sea lion doctoring to do toda—“ Lance doesn’t get to finish his question. Instead, he’s clinging to the doorknob for dear life, having lost his footing for the second time that day. The enormous yelp he just let out still echoes in his throat and ears. Pidge casually strolls through the doorway, whistling innocently as if they hadn’t just _very_ _purposefully_ _shoved the door_ even though _Lance was nice enough_ _to hold it open for them_ but _WHATEVER_.

“Hey, Allura,” they say brightly and, without even looking his direction, slops some fish guts from their bucket and onto Lance’s shoes.

Lance sputters, glancing down at the now-slimy canvas. “Hey! You did that on purpose!”

Pidge shrugs. “Whoops. My hand must’ve slipped.” That’s it. They’re evil. Pure evil in a tiny,  _ tiny _ package.

“Hello, Pidge,” Allura replies, suppressing a laugh.

Lance stands indignantly, rolling up his sleeves to give Pidge a piece of his mind, but the slippery floor has other ideas. He takes a single step, and then his feet are taking off like it’s the airport. Next thing he knows, he’s on his ass, groaning and lying in a puddle of fish goo.

Lance’s head pounds, a warm ache blooming at the back of his skull. He hears Pidge and Allura laughing so hard he darkly wishes they’ll pee their pants. At the same time, he looks foggily around the room, accepting death. His brain plays the music from that scene in  _ Gladiator _ where Russell Crowe dies and joins his family in Roman heaven or whatever. He’s imagining himself slow-motion jogging through a field of waist-high wheat when suddenly Pidge appears above him, tears in their eyes. They extend their hand and Lance looks at it skeptically.

They sigh. “I won’t drop you. I  _ promise _ .”

Lance, properly placated, takes their hand because, despite part-timing as the literal antichrist, promises mean something to Pidge.

On his feet again, Pidge wrinkles their nose. “Gross. You  _ reek _ .”

“And whose fault is that?!” Lance exclaims.

Before Pidge has a chance to respond and the two can really get into it, Allura swoops in, ushering Lance away. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

Lance concedes with a shrug, and then grimaces, smacking his lips. “I think I got some in my mouth.”

__

“Pidge, my pal. My dude. I need a pick me up. I’m wearing Allura’s clothes and my shoes are soggy and it’s hot and I still smell like fish and I don’t think I can handle a bus ride without an iced coffee.”

Lance shlubs down the sidewalk on their usual route to the closest bus stop. He’s decked out in a pair of ill-fitting joggers and a crop top, squishing along in his sodden canvas shoes, colors faded from fish gunk and fervent scrubbing.

Pidge rolls their eyes and then fondly says, “C’mon, there’s a coffee shop nearby.”

“Thanks.” Lance lets Pidge lead the way, cringing a little every time he steps down. Like the tide, the soles of his shoes gush lukewarm water and a faintly fishy odor through his toes with each footfall. Lance peers behind him and wishes he hadn’t. He’s left a watery swamp monster trail on the sidewalk. 

 

A squat little coffee shop pops up on the corner of an intersection a few blocks away from the bay, sandwiched between buildings much taller than it. Giant panes of glass greet the street, the menu etched on them in white lettering as well as, in much larger script, the name of the place: The Bean. 

 

A modestly cool gust of air greets them as they enter. The hairs on the back of Lance’s neck lift in the breeze. He scuffs across the grey poured concrete floor, and takes a moment to admire the place while he and Pidge air out their armpits.

To the left are a few airy wooden tables, patrons sitting and typing on laptops or tapping away at their phones while they enjoy their coffee. There’s a mural on the white brick wall beyond depicting a bear sitting grimly at a table with glasses perched on his snout. He nurses a cup of coffee picturing the state of California. In heavy, red calligraphy reads, ‘bears love coffee too.’ 

To the right of the door is a tall bar attached to one of the large front windows, a tidy row of barstools lined up under it. 

 

Directly ahead, there’s a long butcher-block counter, various treats showcased in glass and plastic wrap atop it, with a hand-written chalkboard menu hanging on the wall above the various machines. While no one was manning the counter when they first came in, a young man now steps out from the back room, looking down as he dusts his hands off on his black apron. A floaty and well-timed indie folk song begins to play overhead.

Lance first notices 1) a full head of dark, untamed hair arranged in something of a mullet, 2) tight, lean arms, 3) devastatingly long, slim fingers.  _ Now that’s what dreams are made of _ . As kind of a knee-jerk reaction, Lance swaggers up to the counter, shoes squashing wetly. 

 

“Hey, wait for me!” Pidge protests, following quickly behind. 

 

Lance, very focused on the mission at hand, drums on his upper thighs jauntily and prepares to get his flirt on. At least, that was the plan until the guy looks up and they lock eyes.

“Hey, what can I get for you?” His eyes are dark pools of frightening depths and heavy gravity, Jupiter gravity. Something moves in Lance’s chest, and he’s a little afraid there’s an alien baby growing inside of him. He pictures a little alien dude crashing through his ribcage, splattering Lance’s bloody heart and lungs all over this guy.

Lance blinks, at a rare loss for words. “Hi.”

They stare at one another for a moment, and Lance now feels like he’s underwater, like everything’s moving a little slower, a little quieter.

“Uh, hi. Can I get you something?”

Lance imagines a very small version of himself dressed as a cowboy riding his brain, smacking its hind end. “Giddiyup, brain!” tiny cowboy Lance hollers.

The barista looks at him expectantly, his eyebrows quirked.

 

Pidge jabs Lance in the side with their elbow. 

“Ow—can I get a medium Vietnamese coffee?” Lance spits it out quickly, grateful that his words came out the way he intended them to.

“Hot or iced?” dark eyes asks, and Lance glances down at the handwritten name tag on his chest.  _ Keith _ . What the hell kind of name is  _ Keith _ ?

“Iced.” It’s like a country singer name or an old hair band dad name or something.  _ Keith.  _ And how does he get away with talking like that, huh?  _ Hot or iced? _  Ridiculous.

“Can I get a name?”

“Yes.”

 

Lance can feel Pidge’s eyes on him, can imagine the look on their face—both bewildered and darkly amused. 

Keith looks at Lance expectantly, still professionally patient but looking understandably weirded out. “Which is…?” Keith brushes a lock of hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear, which is when Lance notices he’s got a cute little pair of black plugs in. God _ , it’s so  _ stupid.

Lance wracks his brain for his name, and can’t find it. It’s like that episode of  _ Spongebob _ where Spongebob can’t remember his name because he replaced everything in his head with waiter etiquette. Inside his mind, tiny cowboy Lance has dawned a suit and a bolo tie and has spawned a dozen copies of himself. They’re all running around and screaming, “what’s my name?!” All big, not-cowboy Lance can do is stare at Keith the Barista’s nametag to avoid staring at Keith the Barista’s face. So, naturally, he blurts out, “Keith.”

Keith frowns a little, concerned.

 

“Ahhhhhhh he’s just kidding!” Pidge cuts in. “He’s a jokester, this guy!” 

“Uhhhh, yeah! Ha ha, that’s your name, not mine!” Lance amends lamely, desperately wishing he could astral project his foot into his mouth. The tiny Lances are meanwhile in various states of distress; some are catatonic, just sitting limply, while others are pushing large, red buttons with no apparent purpose while they wail.

Keith gives Lance another prompting look. Lance looks down at Keith’s hand resting on the counter for inspiration. “Haaaand. Hand…some. Thaaat is what my name kind of rhymes with,” Lance says, the sentence decreasing in volume like it’s rolling downhill as his shame and embarrassment builds.  _ What is  _ happening _? _

Keith looks confused, but only shrugs and says, “okay, Handsome. That’ll be $4.06.”

 

Pidge slides briefly in between Lance and the counter. “Make that two, please.” 

 

“Aaaalright. $8.13.” 

Lance fondles his butt in search of his pocket and then his wallet, taking an uncomfortably long time to fish it out. He finally catches it, fumbling it open. Lance smiles sheepishly up at Keith without making eye contact with him and then hands over his credit card.

Keith nods in thanks, taking it from him, and Lance notices a tiny spaceship tattoo near the crook of the barista’s elbow. “I want to believe,” accompanies the image in block letters. Lance is crying inside, howling. He stares despondently at the counter until Keith clears his throat, attempting to hand Lance’s plastic back to him.

“I’ll have those right out for you.”

Lance smiles feebly and drifts off to the other end of the bar, caught between earnestly wanting to die and feeling a little hopeful because Keith the Barista just called him handsome. So, he just anxiously lingers nearby like he’s waiting in the hall for a baby to be born.

_ I choked. I choked! This never happens. I mean, not never, but not since I was, like, thirteen at that pool party…  _ Lance feels his cheeks warming, and curses his body for having blood and curses Keith the Barista for having a stupid spaceship tattoo and a stupid mullet and for looking at Lance like he’s weird. Because Lance isn’t weird. Keith is the weird one, who gets an  _ X-Files _ tattoo anyway?

 

“Handsome?  _ Really? _ ” Pidge whispers, giggles breaking up the syllables, finally breaking Lance out of his reverie. 

 

“Yes,  _ really _ . Why couldn’t you have just said my name? You’re a terrible wing…  _ person _ .” Lance hisses back, cheeks burning cherry red. 

 

“It seemed like you had it under control.” Pidge shrugs innocently. 

 

“This is the worst day of my life,” Lance moans tearily, pacing away from the counter and settling heavily onto a chair. 

 

“There, there.” Pidge somewhat awkwardly comforts him, patting his arm. 

 

“You owe me 4 dollars,” Lance says wetly. 

 

__

 

“And then he said his name was…  _ handsome _ .” Pidge is crying from laughing, unable to eat the tortilla chip that’s been in their hand for the past 5 minutes while they told Hunk the story of Lance’s Very Bad Day. Salsa dribbles idly down their hand, but they haven’t seemed to notice. 

 

Hunk, meanwhile, is face down on the patio table, the whole thing quivering from his laughter. Lance’s uneaten enchilada wobbles through the Hunk-made earthquake. 

 

Lance can’t take it anymore. He’s had enough embarrassment for one day and all he wants is a little sympathy and understanding from his best friends. “It’s not that funny, okay!” 

 

It only makes the other two laugh harder, and Lance feels his face flush even hotter than before. He sinks deeper into his chair, wishing he could disappear. 

 

Hunk gasps in a breath of air and lifts his head up. Tears are streaming down his face and he has little red lattice marks on his cheek from the table. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he manages to eek out, grabbing onto Lance’s shoulder.  

 

When Lance tries to shrug him off, Hunk sobers a little. “Hey, man. It’s okay, it happens to all of us. You just had an off day.” 

 

Lance keeps his eyes trained on the ground. He feels a little better, but doesn’t want to admit it so quickly after his friends had been laughing at his expense for the past five minutes. 

 

“Yeah, Lance.” Pidge gives him an encouraging little kick from under the table. “And it really wasn’t  _ that _ bad.” 

 

After a moment of silence, Lance finally speaks. “...he was really cute,” he despairs.

 

“I know,” Pidge says. 

 

“...and I smell like fish.”

 

“We know,” Pidge and Hunk agree. 

__

 

“Something weird happened today.” Keith throws his keys onto the kitchen counter and pops open the fridge, taking a moment to stand in the cool air. 

 

Shiro peers over the back of the couch, prosthetic arm propped up and his legs thrown casually across Adam’s lap. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Keith uncaps a quart of orange juice and takes a long swig, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “There was some guy—a customer today. He was super out of it. And then he wouldn’t give me his real name, instead he just said ‘handsome.’”

 

Keith replaces the jug and shuts the fridge door, leans back against the counter with his arms crossed.

 

“Well, was he?” Shiro asks. 

 

“Was he what?” 

 

“Handsome.” 

 

“Ugh—whatever, Shiro.” Keith shoves himself off the counter as Shiro and Adam cackle. “I’ll be in my room.”  

 

“Garfle Warfle Snick is on tonight if you wanna watch!” Shiro calls after him. 

 

Keith makes a face, unsure of exactly when Shiro and Adam turned into retirees. “Yeah, maybe,” he replies in a way that basically sounds like a ‘no.’ Keith knows Shiro just likes to make him feel included, especially now that he and Adam have been dating so long it doesn’t really make sense that they don’t live together. The only thing holding them back is Keith, who, at the thought, feels a familiar hot wave of anger and embarrassment, settling cold in the pit of his stomach. Shiro just doesn’t want him to be alone. And as much as Keith hates himself for keeping Shiro from living his life, he’s also grateful for it. He doesn’t know what he’d do without his brother. 

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! Welcome to my newest fic! So I've been planning this thing for a long time, but it's hard for me to get my butt in gear because I want to be perfectly inspired to begin. Perfect inspiration never hit, so here we are a year later and I just wanna post this thing to get the ball rolling. Please enjoy and drop a comment if you're liking it!


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